[things to write about: confession about how i kind of want to be the Gilmore Girls, but which one? and explain to Jenni that it's not the same as the Golden Girls, and then remember to write the thing about how only 6% of Americans hold passports and only 10% of that 6% uses them. This statistic I heard on RealTime with Bill Maher. Then stop watching RealTime with Bill Maher right before you go to bed in the future because of how you woke up roommate by screaming in your sleep that last time. And then I should follow up here about how I never found the NYTimes usage of preverbial and that i've given up because of--because of who cares, plus no time. And then I need to floss and go to bed and tomorrow I visit my tax man and ...angie, angie, aint it time we said good bye... angie, angie.... (which is really sung "anjay, anjay"...) Pre-grind coffee beans before going to bed and feed the cat that actually eats. turn heat down. Reminder to mention that the new Calexico CD SXX brought home is real good and catchy and punchy and mariachiesque. And also catchy is Laura Cantrell's Radio Thrift Shop on WFMU.org-- way good. Great. And Bob wills. Bob Wills is great. Speaking of Texas...]

On a positive note: PRAY FOR PEACE: A poem thingie by Ellen Bass (www.ellenbass.com via Rob Brezsny's Free Will Astrology [Aries go here] via jkh):

Pray to whoever you kneel down to: Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross, his suffering face bent to kiss you, Buddha still under the Bo tree in scorching heat, Yahweh, Allah, raise your arms to Mary that she may lay her palm on our brows, to Shekinhah, Queen of Heaven and Earth, to Inanna in her stripped descent.

Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, Record Keeper of time before, time now, time ahead, pray. Bow down to terriers and shepherds and siamese cats. Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Pray to the bus driver who takes you to work, pray on the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus and for everyone riding buses all over the world. If you haven't been on a bus in a long time, climb the few steps, drop some silver, and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM, for your latté and croissant, offer your plea. Make your eating and drinking a supplication. Make your slicing of carrots a holy act, each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.

Make the brushing of your hair a prayer, every strand its own voice, singing in the choir on your head. As you wash your face, the water slipping through your fingers, a prayer: Water, softest thing on earth, gentleness that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already a prayer. Skin and open mouths worshipping that skin, the fragile case we are poured into, each caress a season of peace.

If you're hungry, pray. If you're tired. Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day. Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth. Pray to the angels and the ghost of your grandfather.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox, to the video store, let each step be a prayer that we all keep our legs, that we do not blow off anyone else's legs. Or crush their skulls. And if you are riding on a bicycle or a skateboard, in a wheel chair, each revolution of the wheels a prayer that as the earth revolves we will do less harm, less harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure, a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail or delivering soda or drawing good blood into rubber-capped vials, writing on a blackboard with yellow chalk, twirling pizzas, pray for peace.

With each breath in, take in the faith of those who have believed when belief seemed foolish, who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace, feed the birds for peace, each shiny seed that spills onto the earth, another second of peace. Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk. Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child around your VISA card. Gnaw your crust of prayer, scoop your prayer water from the gutter. Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling your prayer through the streets.

No, it's not preverbial, as it turns out. Of course the word is proverbial. But, I read Preverbial somewhere...and blindly believed it, so I'm retracing all of my reading steps to locate where I came across it and thought to myself "hmm, preverbial?"? I'd say it was most likely the NYTimes Magazine because that's the only reading I get done these days— and why would one question the Times? Surely my favorite Randy Cohen, in his column The Ethicist, wouldn't misspell...Rule that part out. This reader can never get through William Saphire's On Language, besides, he would never have a lingual error. No need to check that. Could it be the back page? The artilce on Repression v. Talk Therapy? the What They Were Thinking peice? I won't implicate until I find the source...Oh but I'll find it (Start with the corrections corner this week.)

I suppose it could also be in some snippet from the TimeOutNY I occasionally peruse, which come in the mail as frequently as JCrew catalogs and Sharper Image advertisements and requests for money from Planned P'hood and PBS Channel 13.

Did you know it was Preverbial, not Proverbial*(see above)?
Did you ever realize that Palmolive is just Palm and Olive, as one word?
Did you ever think about how during is enduring, but not a verb?

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